Illusioned Man
by fallintotoday
Summary: Sif lives in a world polluted with social issues; and she refuses to endure them silently. Forced back into the Muggle world by her own radical thinking, and loud mouth, she stumbles upon a political group hidden beneath the streets of London.
1. Chapter 1

Sif worked through her summer, as any normal, seventeen year-old girl would do for life experience, in a part-time position as a clerk. Unlike normal, seventeen year-old girls, the shop she worked for sold exclusively magical books, for magical people, for the magical community she had suddenly found herself apart of, nearly seven years prior. This sudden realization would have been more plausible had her parents told her about her adoption; she had come from a wizarding family that had perished just six months after her birth in the middle of what, she later found out, was called the Wizarding War.

Her case had been a curious one, solely for the reason that her parents were of 'pure-blood', and yet still chose to reject the dogma of 'blood purity', which would have naturally harboured them, had they been wizards of a meeker sort. Beyond that, of course, Sif knew little of who her parents were, and had since decided that their choice would have meant nothing beyond their loss had she not learned, and then adopted, what little she knew of their philosophy.

To her peers, she was still the child of a set of Muggles; they were, for the most part, unaware of her heritage, with as little or as much as her heritage still applied to modern life. She had ultimately decided, in her fourth year or so, that this hidden truth was best kept as a secret- there were far too many bad conversations to be had that involved blood-purity, which she was convinced had little to do with much, anyway. However, many were still convinced that being pure-blooded was the Muggle equivalent of being born into a royal line. While Sif was flattered to be considered the sole heir to her family bloodline- at least, the only 'heir' that she was currently aware of- she had no idea what throne she was supposed to sit on...so therefore, it must be a fairly unimportant seat to take.

Sif stood behind an antiquated cash register, a tall shelf of the shop's most valuable property locked away behind her back. Her eyes scanned over an out-dated muggle newspaper that she had smuggled beneath the counter, a mug of coffee tucked into her other hand. It had turned out to be a very slow business day, whereas most wizard's were not thinking about books on a Wednesday- or at least, it appeared so- and just a few souls were drifting through the aisles, only indicating their presence with a stifled cough or the soft, papery shuffle of a book being lifted from its shelf.

Sif was reading about a religous turf war in Muggle Africa when the shop-bell suddenly sounded. Anxious, her hand immediately shoved the foreign newspaper as far back into the cubby beneath the register as her arm would comfortably allow. She had a tight-lipped, professional smile already tacked on her face as she glanced up to regard the person who had stepped into the shop.

She recognized him immediately.

This man, whose pale, blond hair and strikingly aristocratic profile was unknown to the world written about in her Muggle newspaper, was infamous in this one. Lucius Malfoy, whose name had been well feared during the aforementioned war, had somehow- Sif could make many cynical assertions as to how, but- had somehow cleansed his name since, and even had the confidence to walk without a faltered step under the suspicious and fearful glances he continued to inspire.

Sif did her best to still the quiver developing in her underlip. After all, there were only so many Death Eaters during the war that had been known to be active within the neighbourhood where her true parents had lived, and Lucius Malfoy had been named one of them. By all probability, it was quite likely that Sif was now standing not three feet away from the man who was responsible for murdering her parents. A man who might have been responsible for her own death, had her parents not excersized the caution they had by sheltering their child in an orphange far away, just a week before their deaths.

But, Sif had grown up with no knowledge of these people, who, if they were still alive and she had still been adopted, would have been perfect strangers. She felt no true attachment to the story of her parents, for it seemed only a story, beyond a sentimental longing to know which of her parents had given her their beautiful, blonde hair, what values and lessons they might have taught her, or a deep wonder at the thought of who she might be, if she would even be working at this bookshop, if she would have even liked books, if they were still alive.

Lucius Malfoy had pled insanity, or at least the Wizarding equivalent, fourteen years before, a time beyond her full comphrehension; and, by all fairness, it seemed to Sif that the only crime he could still be held accountable for was the killing of, what now was, just an idea, _if_ he had happened to be holding the wand that had taken their lives. So, there were two things that kept Sif firmly planted in her place behind the register. Somehow, impartiality seemed to have been bred into her, despite. Her apathy had been the effect of witnessing the breadth of cruelty capable of man's hand at an early age.

Sif wasn't surprised to see that Malfoy was only interested in the oldest books, too valuable to keep out in the open. His cold, grey eyes were fixed on the tomes hidden behind the locked, glass doors behind her, and Sif was forced to stand in his shadow as he casually considered the titles. He gave her presence no acknowledgement, instead thrusting his strong chin into the air. Sif wanted nothing more than to let him know of the mercy she had just afforded him, of the significance of the asylum that the Ministry had granted him, and how fortunate he was that she had known nothing of the people who should have been her parents. Sif knew the likelihood of his guilt, but also the power of his influence and how it had paid for his freedom whether he was guilty of her parent's murder, or someone else's.

And she was frightened by how her left hand was twitching, too eager for the justice that might be brought by simply returning one of his curses, of which he was likely owed many, despite her lack of evidence to incriminate him.

When he found the book he was searching for, which he indicated to be a thick spellbook wrapped in golden brocade that was worth far less in weight than the sum required to purchase it, his cold eyes finally fell down upon her. She stiffly jerked into action, rather not wanting to return such a stare, finding the rusted iron keys required to open the display in a partition beneath the register. Her fingers were trembling as she worked the old lock, and nearly lost the keys several times before the doors finally sprung open.

She averted her gaze as she brought the book to Malfoy, quickly reaching for the lengthy form required during the sale of every book within that cabinet, and immediately began to fill out its fields while Malfoy examined the spellbook.

When she finished, she spun the form around, and held out her quill so he could sign it.

She watched as his eyes rapidly scanned the text, when they came to a short pause near the end of the document.

"Is there a problem?" She asked, her expression bemused.

A frown flickered over Malfoy's face, betraying his thoughts for less than a heartbeat, before his hand scrawled his florid signature across the page. He picked up the parchment carefully, his lips puckering to set the fresh ink with a single, steady breath.

His eyes were glinting as they came up to hold her.

He had expended so much effort in ignoring her at this point, and his gaze now held such cruel, predatory precision, that Sif felt a stroke of fear, very much like the child of the greater fear her parents must have experienced before their deaths.

"Sif.., is it?" He simply observed, his lips curling.

Sif nodded meekly.

His eyes were without any colour, empty, and very much like the eyes Sif could imagine capable of cold-bloodedness.

"Quite an uncommon name." He said, gently handing back the document. "Nearly obsolete, in fact."

"...It is." Sif agreed, her voice timorous through the knot tightening in her throat. She took back the document, and stowed it hastily away beneath the register.

"There, there." He coddled stiffly, some coldness disappearing from his face. "I'm merely making polite conversation." His tight smirk returned as he swept the book into the crook of his arm.

Sif's grip on the countertop tightened as Malfoy swiftly turned and left the shop. Her knees had grown weak with the sudden realization that she was experiencing much more terror than she had initially anticipated. She needed to sit down on the tall stool beside her while his silhouette crossed the large, front window, his stride just as cool and confident as when he had first entered.

There were four hours until the bookstore closed for the night, and even Sif's Muggle newspaper did little to ease the creeping feeling developing on the small of her back. She had become ever vigilant, a cautious eye turned to the front of the shop, certain in the probability that he would return again. But, when?


	2. Chapter 2

Exactly four weeks later, Sif found her summer vacation had slid away to the coming crisp, Autumn mornings and waxing nights. There was exactly a week before her schooling began, and she was starting one of her last shifts at the bookstore. She was unraveling the thick, knit scarf she had made specifically knowing her nearness to the chillier seasons, when the shop-bell rang behind her.

"The shop isn't quite open." She called, hanging her jacket and things upon an antique coat stand. She glanced sidelong through her veil of blonde fringe at the man lingering at the front of the shop.

She pushed her thick-framed glasses up her nose, lips parted in her shock.

Lucius Malfoy had the golden book tucked beneath his arm, his elbows drawn against his sides as he tugged off his dark leather gloves. He seemed not to hear her, or at least believed he was above the norm respecting shop hours, and therefore did nothing. The fact was, he seemed just as displeased to see her.

"The door was wide open." He said, tucking his gloves away. He retrieved an old watch from his breast pocket. "And, it is near enough to eight that I believe I am breaking no laws."

Sif knew that by 'wide open' Malfoy had meant 'unlocked', and by 'near enough to eight' he had meant 'half an hour that I would rather not wait'. But, Sif had many duties she needed to complete before that half hour was up, so she positioned herself behind the counter and beckoned him forward with a jerk of her head.

Sif was leaning on her elbows when Malfoy strode across the room; he stopped so near the counter that Sif felt the need to back away. He stared down at her coolly, and with the smallest measure of amusement, as he slid the old book from under his arm.

"I no longer require this book." He said simply, his fingers splayed wide on the front cover as he pushed the book towards her.

"Books of that value are non-refundable." Sif countered, automatically reaching for the satchet of papers that contained the contract he had signed that explained the fact.

"I do not wish to sell it." He articulated sharply, his eyes set on the satchet of papers in her hand. "As a kindness, I have decided to donate the book."

Her nostrils flared. "I can either write a letter alerting the manager of your decision, or you can return to the shop around noon, when he is expected to arrive."

"Write the letter." Malfoy demanded, turning swiftly on his heel and exitting the store.

Sif took a steady, controlled breath and looked down at the counter. He hadn't bothered to take the book with him. She chewed her lip and shoved the book aside, taking hold of a spare piece of parchment and quill to write the note. She would have to add the trip to the Owl Post Office to her list of morning duties, so she quickly swiped her jacket from the coat stand and left the shop.

Her feet hastened down the cobbled path of Diagon Alley, adjusting the lapels of her jacket in a flustered fury. She worried that she wasn't going to count the register or update the front display before the crowds of new students began to filter through. She was increasingly annoyed by the way Malfoy had asserted his good-heartedness, when clearly he was just an arrogant man.

She arrived at the post office just as the tall, lanky man inside was opening its doors. She watched the skies interestedly as they began to fill with birds flittering left and right, carrying messages between businesses. On her way back, she handed over a few knuts to a small coffee vendor that was just finished brewing a pot. Then she scurried back, some five minutes before eight, to find a small bird perched on the sill outside Flourish and Blotts.

She tugged the note from its legs and the small owl took flight. She scanned the messy writing as she struggled her way into the shop, and learned that Mr. Blott was going to meet with her shortly. She tucked the note into her pocket and closed the shop door, walking quickly across the floor towards the counter.

She had tidied up her area, and was halfway through counting the sickles in the register when Mr. Blott apparated outside.

He tried the door, looked down at his watch, and began to fish for his keys. His face was stern as he entered, leaving the door propped open against the wall. He took a moment to remove his outer robes, which gave Sif enough time to move onto the galleons, before he looked up.

"It's five after eight." He simply stated, his voice neutral.

"I'm sorry, sir." Sif simpered, distractedly jotting down numbers on a slip beside the register. "This morning proved unpredictable."

"Will this happen every morning from now on?" He asked next, leaving his robes on the coat stand and coming around to glance at the numbers Sif had left in the ledger.

"Of course not, sir." Sif said, closing the register. "This is the first and only time."

"Just what I wanted to hear." He said, glaring up at her with a dark eye.

"Thank you, sir." Sif nodded bleakly, turning the small, brass key that locked the register's drawer, and stowed it away in the partition below. She picked up the roll of parchment that indicated the texts that Hogwarts had assigned that year, and moved into the back room. She was nearly finished loading a cart with them when a conversation struck up in the front.

When Sif returned, her manager was speaking with Malfoy.

She ignored the details, and began restocking the shelves at the front of the store. To her, it sounded as though Malfoy was demanding that no evidence be made, and that any evidence existing be destroyed, that proved he had owned the book.

Then her manager glanced over at Sif nervously, and Sif dropped her gaze. They continued talking in hushed tones as the book was taken from the counter, and they moved up the stairs towards the manager's office.

When the door to the office shut, Sif peered up after them. The only thing that could make Mr. Blott blush might have been something better placed in Knockturn Alley. But this brought even more confusion, as Malfoy was certainly not one to shy away from the darker Alley. What had that book contained?

Customers began to filter into the shop, and Sif was finishing up her duties, when Malfoy and her manager reappeared from the office. The book was gone, and Sif could only assume the document was gone, but the most horrific idea was that Malfoy had tried to give the encriminating book back to the store through her. If anyone else had subsequently purchased the book- well, would she not be held responsible for letting the book back into the shop?

Malfoy bid the manager goodbye at the bottom of the stairs. Sif glared at him wearily and with a dash of contempt as she watched him tug his dark leather gloves back on. There was no sign of appeasement in his face that the issue of their morning had been resolved much quicker than it could have been, but Sif was still so far out of the loop that she felt compelled to finish her duties rather than stick her nose farther into the business.

In just a week she would be safely locked in her final year at Hogwarts.


	3. Chapter 3

Sif was given a full-time position for the three remaining days of August. She had spent two of them in flustered confusion, being drawn in all directions as new wizards and their busy mothers seemed unable to navigate the shop. She found herself only able to restock shelves just as they were rendered barren, and all the time it seemed large collections were being misplaced just as they were required. Retail, during this season, was extremely stressful, and Sif wearily entered the book shop with a great yawn, on the morning of her final day. Her face paled at the chaos left in the wake of the day before.

She counted the till with the comforting thought that most wizards must have done their shopping the days before, that there must have been few wizards foolish enough to leave school shopping to the final day. She managed to straighten some of the shelves just before she was required to open the doors. Mr. Blott appeared around noon, when he usually arrived, and with him came the timely crowd of late-shoppers.

"How did the morning go?" Mr. Blott asked her, in a small moment when everything was moving smoothly.

"Excellently." Sif beamed, stowing away the galleons from her recent transaction. "No hitches."

"I admit, It will be a shame to see you go." Mr. Blott admitted, chewing his upper lip. His eyes seemed distractedly scanning the shelves behind them, and, after a moment, he reached for the rusted iron keys beneath the register. Sif moved away to watch as he unlocked the shelf, drew out a dusty tome, and placed it on the counter. Then he relocked the cabinet, glanced at his watch, and offered a warm, vacant smile to Sif.

Sif raised her brows, smiling back at him in the sudden, strange silence. Luckily, a large family came up to the till, and Sif busied herself with them.

The shop-bell sounded, and Sif glanced over to find Malfoy and his son, who was four years younger than Sif, walk into the shop.

Sif quickly went back to punching numbers on the till as the young Malfoy began to pace around the room. Lucius Malfoy came straight up to the counter, where it appeared Mr. Blott was waiting for him.

"Shall we go upstairs?" asked Mr. Blott.

Malfoy shook his head. "No."

If Sif had looked up, she would have seen Malfoy's smirk.

Mr. Blott shifted his weight with a tight nod. "Well.., you certainly posed the most curious question." Mr. Blott began, cracking open the strange, old book. "One I am most obliged to answer, considering the events of the last week."

Malfoy smiled coldly.

Sif glanced at them furtively through her veil of hair, her hands grasping for the pile of books another patron had brought to the till. She calculated their cost quickly as Mr. Blott was busy flipping through the book in heavy silence.

"There are only a few families affected during the period you indicated." Mr. Blott continued more quietly, his finger pointing to various pages in the book.

"And...?" Lucius pressed, glaring down his nose at Mr. Blott.

"Yes." Said Mr. Blott, licking his lips. "Curiously, only one family fits within your description. However, there is a single surviving member of the bloodline, so the family is not extinct." Mr. Blott fingered the corner of his glasses, which sat halfway down his hooked nose, his cloudy eyes observing Lucius concertedly.

"Their name?"

Sif settled the coins into the register quietly, her ears turned to the conversation.

"Rowle." Mr. Blott said, turning the pages of the old book to one with an elaborate family crest. "One surviving son, of twenty years of age, named Thorfinn. One daughter, assumed deceased at three years of age, disappeared shortly before their parent's deaths on June fifth of 1980."

Sif shut the register and shook out her hair, smiling vacantly as another patron thanked her and left.

She straightened and peered over at Mr. Blott.

Mr. Blott pushed his glasses up his nose, and a grin cracked his lips apart. "Their daughter was named Sif."

Sif mashed her lips together as a smirk grew on her face, her expression drawn up in fake surprise.

Lucius peered over at Sif with a curious brow.

Mr. Blott held the book farther from his face, bringing it into better focus. "Do you see this, Ms. Smith? Same age, as well."

"Fancy that." Sif muttered, glancing at the crest. She reached over for her lunch hour coffee, which she sipped at to stop her urge to smile.

"Imagine, you just might be linked to such a pure line." A low whistle came from Mr. Blott. He glanced over at her with an enthusiastic, happy smile. "Or, at least, may bluff someone into thinking so."

Sif clicked her tongue and shrugged. "I am sorry to admit that I am not related, by principle." She said flatly, pointedly looking up at Malfoy.

Malfoy returned her stare with heavy silence. He drew his tongue over his front teeth as though tasting his response, before looking away into the room.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Mr. Blott chortled, glancing nervously between Sif and Lucius.

"Come, Draco." Lucius beckoned.

Draco appeared at his side with a stack of textbooks.

Sif took the load silently, and began to tally up the sum. She chose not to answer Mr. Blott's question, or to elaborate at all, as it seemed Lucius was beginning to sense her hostility. It was true that Malfoy knew who she was, or it was true now, but it was still unclear as to why he knew, or why he wanted her to know that he knew. The implications were beginning to point directly towards the fact that he was at least one of the Death Eaters present at her family's home that night.

"Slaving to pay for your text books this year, mud-blood?" Draco couldn't help but jeer, a smirk dancing at the corner of his lip.

"When you're older, Malfoy, you might learn it is best to not count the money in your father's coin purse." Sif answered bluntly, straightening his books. "Some might consider the idle behaviour rather unlike a real Slytherin."

Draco sneered in response.

"Now, now, Draco." Lucius chastened, resting his hand firmly on Draco's shoulder. "We must not taunt the ill-fated. They have it hard enough, as it is."

Draco sneered.

Mr. Blott chuckled nervously as he moved between the feuding parties. "Why don't you take care of the display in the front, Ms. Smith?" He whispered hurriedly, glancing at the roll of reciept paper spiralling from the register.

Sif was laughing. "Wait-" She said, moving away from the till, "Your ideal was the hand that extinguished my name, therefore it is by you that I am ill-fated."

"We have no personal quarrell now, I assure you." Lucius hissed, following Sif away from the ears of other patrons.

"Oh, but we do!" Sif cried, "You cannot maintain the belief that left me parentless, and then mock me for it, without staying to hear my contempt."

"Then say it." He replied.

"Tell me first: why do you prefer obnoxiousness to be a genetic trait? I believe I am far kinder in suggesting that it is a learned one." Sif folded her arms and stared at Lucius with a stern jaw.

"The display, please. Ms. Smith." Mr. Blott insisted exasperatingly.

Lucius scowled, his voice hushed, as he splayed his fingers across the expanse of the counter and leaned toward her. "You cannot learn to be pure-blooded, Ms. Rowle, it is a privilege bestowed at birth. And whether or not you align with our principles is a foolish, dangerous question to ask yourself."

"Do you truly accept your 'pure-bloodedness' to be a virtue?" She asked incredulously, "It is plain for me to see it as a blind to your own unexceptional mortality. It is a cradle to soothe the fear that you are just as common as a Muggle man." Sif planted her hands on the countertop and brought her face as close to his as she could dare. "You know, as well as I, the hard evidence that proves that this is so."

"Your parents were fools to spit on their noble name. They were never worthy of it, as, it seems, neither are you." Lucius lifted his chin and glared at her down his nose.

Sif's lip curled up in disgust. "Mr. Malfoy." She implored, "Muggles invent the concepts of Gods and governments to put them in their place, and fashion groups, like race and creed, to categorize their kind. They shiver in the shadow of the many minorities _they created_, who outnumbered and confused them. Just as they categorized us. Are you aware of the similarities between our mistakes, Mr. Malfoy, or do you declare ignorance?"

"We are not the same as those animals." Lucius sneered, his tongue sharpened with disdain, "Have you ever thought that our lines have endured because we _are_ more powerful?"

"Your lines have endured because_ human _resolve has led you to inbreeding, which, science says, creates the opposite effect of what you were searching for." Sif replied. "As for how your cause endures: Nobody wants to feel weak, Lucius. The lust for power can draw the pettiest of men. Otherwise, there is death, which is sufficient to convert the rest. You endure because you instill the same fear that binds you to your cause."

"Quiet!" Lucius hissed sharply. "My name has been cleared of the stain of that war!"

"Tell me where you were on the night of June fifth and then repeat that statement."

Lucius sneered, his white teeth bared. "I was celebrating the birth of my son. My name has been cleared of that stain."

Sif retracted, her hands falling from their firm hold of the countertop. She blinked and peered over at Mr. Blott as a heated flush began to fill her cheeks. She stammered, finding the passion in her arguement smothered by his alibi.

"I apologize."

Lucius' nostrils flared, his grey eyes wild and furious. His gaze drifted languidly over her face, as though undecided as to whether he liked it, or wanted to tear it away. "Filthy blood traitor." He muttered acidly.

A vacant, unmoved expression tightened her lips. "Cruel, illusioned man." She shrugged.

Lucius' eye tightened on her, a small frown brooding on his lips.

"Come, Draco." Lucius straightened, his eyes sweeping, narrow and unfocused, away from her.

"Yes, Father." Draco said, his grey eyes wide, as his fingers fumbled with his books.

Lucius sniffed disdainfully, tidying the hem of his cloak as he turned and left the bookstore with young Malfoy in his tow.

Mr. Blott turned to Sif with a bleak expression. "You're very lucky this is your final shift."


	4. Chapter 4

Sif woke up early the next morning, her usually pleasant and vivid dreams smothered by an ardent, unpleasant variety. She must have relived the previous evening's arguement a thousand times inside her head; she had rewritten it so substantially that she was no longer sure of which version had actually occurred. She believed that, every time, she had won by varying degrees, and at least she could weed out which was false by Malfoy's varying reactions. She could hardly believe that none of them had ended with her in tears.

She thrust her thick-framed glasses higher up her nose as she stepped onto the tube, and chose to settle into a window seat. She blew on her piping hot coffee and focused on the bright lights flashing spasmodically outside the darkened windows. Her brain was quick to drift back to the subject of her dreams the night before.

She remembered, strangely and in great detail, the moment Lucius had written his elaborate signature a month before. He had used slim, tall loops and quick, forward flourishes, and she was sensitive to the way the dark ink had clung to the surface of the parchment. She didn't realize she was paying so much attention to the wrinkle of his lips as he pursed them, drying the ink with his steady, deliberate breath; his frosty eyes directed up at her.

She inhaled sharply and blew into the small hole in her coffee lid, her slim fingers starting to tremble. Something was beginning to itch at the back of her mind, although she was still not sure there was a reason for her mind to have recorded the moment in such great detail.

The train gave a lurch, and the man sitting ahead of her began to peer out the window. Sif's heart gave a jump, noticing that this common business man, with the exception of his short, brunet hair, looked strikingly similar to Malfoy. But this man lacked Malfoy's coldness; Sif could immediately tell, by the crow's feet at the corner of his eyes and his deepened smile lines, that he was nothing like his twin.

She gazed vacantly ahead for the rest of her trip, sipping occassionally at her cooling coffee and letting her shoulders sway with the jerky movements of the train. Eventually, when the announcement came for King's Cross St. Pancras station, both her and Malfoy's lookalike stood to disembark the train. When the business man reached the doors before her, he opened them and stood aside for her to pass.

She had been smiling because it felt like she'd met Malfoy's good twin. She was considering the effect of alerting the man to the existence of his evil counterpart, when he strode past her on the platform, headed purposefully in some unknowable direction. She smiled solemnly and tugged her trunk up the staircase to King's Cross, her eyes glancing up at the pale, pre-afternoon sky when she arrived at street level.

Platform 9 3/4 was nothing like the peaceful, leisurely atmosphere outside. Here, it was crowded, noisy, and smelled of a unique blend of sweat, soap, and cologne. Sometimes, at concert halls and movie theatres, Sif liked the smell it created; but, here, it was something that brought her back to every excited morning of September the first when she was bound for Hogwarts.

A bolder scent began to dominate her senses. Sif wrinkled her nose at the uneasy feeling it gave her. She followed it around, adjusting her glasses firmly on her nose, to find Malfoy standing almost directly behind her.

She recoiled almost as quickly as he did, upon recognition.

They each narrowed their eyes, averting the obligation to greet the other first. Eventually, Lucius' chin came down in a quick, vague nod, his lips curling in masked contempt.

Sif remained silent for an awkward beat and spun around.

She made a mental note that, if ever she met the business man again, she could tell him that his evil twin had deep-seated anger issues that made a permanent furrow in his brow. His twin would look invariably sour, and, always dressed in black. She would make no comment on his long, foppish hair and the cane he insisted on carrying because, she felt, those details would make her story seem too fantastic to be true.

The line to her train car shortened, and Sif tugged her trunk forward, away from the overpowering smell of Malfoy's cologne. For a few moments, she peered over the crowd of people to her left. That something was beginning to itch at the back of her mind again, but she could hear it this time- it wanted her to find Malfoy.

Her line shortened, and, after a moment of hesitation, she glanced backwards to smile at the students lined up behind her- though her eyes travelled farther back to find his dark form standing where she had left him.

He wasn't looking back at her, to her relief, because he had been rather interested in the crowd to the left.

She shook her head, with a funny smile, lost in her own curious impulses.

An attendant came round with a large trolley to collect her bag, and Sif stepped into the seventh year's train car. She settled herself at a table at the far-end of the train, and prepared herself for the long journey to Hogwarts.


	5. Chapter 5

It was on a Sunday that Sif found herself perched on the fountain in the courtyard. Her year, like everyone else's, had proven unpredictable. For some reason, a Bureaucrat from the Ministry, named Umbridge, had appointed herself High Inquistor- whatever that meant- and had only succeeded in making the curriculum less interesting and everything else harder to partake of.

One of the last things Sif felt at liberty to do was to sit outside with her notebook. Inside it, she scribbled anything and everything she felt compelled to. Today, she was practicing persepective by sketching the grand arches looping over the square.

She felt she was doing a very poor job- her speciality was in human portraits- and was about to tuck away her notebook and retreat from the cold, when a group of voices rose over the wind. She tilted her ear to them, hearing at first a blend of male and female voices, until they grew close enough that Sif could discern a great array in age. If she could guess, they belonged to a small group of a dozen or so, and sure enough, after a minute passed, their heads began to appear over the edge of a hill to her left.

She ducked her head and began to scribble arbitarily over her sketches, her eyes flickering up from under her blond fringe as the group came into view. To her horror, the group contained exactly twelve individuals, but Professor Umbridge made thirteen.

The Hogwarts Board of Governors had begun to cluster around the fountain. She stiffened, uncomfortable with the sudden scrutiny and painfully aware of the fact that anyone of them could glance down at her notebook to discover the mess of tangled lines she'd been creating in an effort to look busy.

She licked her lips and began to flip backwards to any decent portrait that she might display in place of her strange, modern re-interpretation of the Hogwarts courtyard. Settling on a page, she tucked one side of her hair behind her ear, and snuck a peek to see if anyone had noticed.

Malfoy stood firmly in front of her, a clear smirk plastered on his lips.

Sif's stomach floundered after giving an initial lurch. He glanced down to see the dismay on her face, which only intensified his smugness. Sif's nostrils flared. She set her jaw and resolutely set about her task of pretending to draw.

"This square has far too many dark corners. Wouldn't you agree, Lucius?"

"It has four of them, Professor." Lucius observed dryly.

"Yes, yes, far too many." She simpered, waving a dismissive hand.

A smile flickered on the edge of Sif's lips.

"On the contrary this place appears to be quite isolated." Lucius said, "Not at all like a place of congregation. May I ask was brought about the thought of demolishing it?"

Sif paused the flick of her pen.

Umbridge let out a blustering laugh. "Well, Lucius, I have observed quite a few groups to gather here on occassion. It seems an excessive waste of the school's resources to keep the place running."

"Well, there isn't much to run, is there, Professor?" Countered Lucius, narrowing his eyes. "What resources are you speaking of?"

Umbridge cleared her throat. "There are other places in the castle far more deserving of the supervision I have at my disposal. One less burden equals more power to the places_ less dispensible_."

Sif ran her tongue along her bottom lip, her blue eyes stealing a glance up at Lucius.

His brows were gathering in tight knots above his nose.

Was he begininning to see the same parallel that Sif was?

"While I concede your point, do you not think the moderation of access to the courtyard might come to the same effect?"

"My goodness, Lucius!" Umbridge cried, "Do you have sentimental feelings attached to this dreary place?" She smacked her lips and giggled admonishingly. "One more reason to go through with my proposal."

Lucius was scowling again.

"And who do you suppose might be responsible for moderating the access to the courtyard?" Umbridge asked, her voice thin through her fragile patience.

"If there is a shortage of authoratative bodies, Professor," spoke an old, rasping voice. "A guarding charm might be something to consider before destructive magic."

A heavy silence fell over Umbridge and the Governors, as Umbridge peered authoratatively over the crowd.

"P-perhaps we should consider the other aspects of the castle that also have issues?" Suggested a meek-voiced woman.

"No." Umbridge said, pursing her lips. "No, I believe enough has been said today." She stamped her tiny foot. "And I believe to have come to a separate conclusion."

A low murmuring erupted from the Governers.

"As our discussion is in a currently public forum," A short pause here, "I will not share these conclusions wih you personally...However, do look forward to my forthcoming owls on this matter."

"What do you mean?" spoke the old, rasping voice. "We barely arrived half an hour ago, and you are somehow coming to separate conclusions not based on the small points we have discussed?"

"Exactly, Cato." Umbridge simply said.

"Explain this!" Cato roared, "I have held a seat on the board of Governers for over forty years, and yet have never witnessed such indifference!"

Umbridge smiled politely.

"Why have assembled the Board of Governers if you are not going to use them?" Lucius asked with a dark edge, his cold eyes narrowing to small slits.

Sif closed her eyes, letting out the lungful of air she had been holding over the past few minutes. She was expecting this:

"I have assembled you here today with the express purpose of informing you, in spite of our current company," Umbridge said, her voice harsh as her cold eyes focused in on Sif's back, "The Minister of Magic has afforded me ultimate authority."

There was another heavy silence.

"Meaning," Umbridge continued, "As of today, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry no longer requires your services. I have the papers outlining the details of your termination, as well as accolades for your continued dedicated service, in the form of letters signed by the Minister, himself."

Sif set her jaw, the pen in her hand forgotten.

"Now," Umbridge sputtered, "I apologize to have informed you of this here, but you did insist. If you may follow me to my office, I would like to continue this discussion there."

"Why?" Cato said, much to Sif's chagrin, "Clearly our opinion has been terminated- any such discussion would be one-sided and therefore in vain. I would rather like to impress upon you that, though I am forced from this castle, this is not the last time you will hear from me on this matter."

Cato strode past Umbridge and disappeared into the castle, followed by several others.

Umbridge lips were drawn into a tight, white line, her eyes set on a spot in the distance.

"Now," She said, her voice frail, "If the rest of you wou-"

"Why has the Ministry suddenly become adverse to our existence?" asked the meek-voiced woman, "Do we supply some obstruction to the Ministry's plan? Forgive me, Professor, but that does sound an awful lot like totalitarianism."

"Forgive me, Tasoula," Umbridge chuckled, "I am not familiar with this Muggle term. However, if you are suggesting that the Ministry is somehow being run inneffectually, then I must insist that you are gravely misinformed."

"No," Tasoula assured, her voice growing stronger, "I am suggesting the Ministry is being run without the input of its affected parties."

Umbridge giggled, shaking her head. "The Ministry moderates its policies on opinions of only the most trustworthy individuals- like myself- it is nothing like this 'totalitarianism', you so negatively speak of. Would you not like to be governed by a clear, simple government expressly concerned with your safety? Forgive me, but it sounds as though you enjoy the sin that runs rampant in our society!"

"I course I don't!" Tasoula stumbled back, her jaw swinging open.

Sif set down her pen. "By definition," She couldn't help but say, "Totalitarianism is a form of government in which the ruler holds the ultimate opinion, not hindered by law or opposition. Do you accept this definition?"

Umbridge's cold stare was now directed at Sif. She frowned, glancing humouredly at her peers. Umbridge then smiled sickly sweet, folding her hands in front of her rotund stomach.

"This conversation does not include you, student." She said.

"I am a student whose concern is noted by you." Sif said, "Or do you deny this?"

"Well, of course-" Umbridge said, "The Ministry, and by extension, myself, are concerned with your welfare."

"To feel safe under you rule, I have a question I need clarified." Sif answered. "Do you accept the previous definition?"

Umbridge tightened her twitching lips. "Yes, but, I assert that it does not apply."

"Does the Minister not have ultimate authority?"

"Of course, he does." She answered.

"Does he not form the laws he abides by?"

"By nature of his position, yes, that would only make logical sense."

"Does he reject the views of his opposition, and only support those in favour of his own ideals?"

"You said one question," Umbridge said, pointing an accusatory finger, "And yet, I have allowed three. I think I have entertained your curiousity long enough."

"Please, Professor." Sif said, "I have not yet reached my question."

Umbridge sighed, her features flaring with annoyance. "He does, naturally, select only those opinions which prove sound, yes."

"He does, in effect," she smiled, "run a totalitarian government."

"If you want to argue semantics, then yes!" Umbridge shouted, "But that fails to prove it is a bad thing!"

"What kind of government takes only their own concerns into consideration," Sif's anger flared, "Blowing up courtyard's and inaugurating trivial, frankly ludricous, laws concerning the most intimate matters, and still argue that its chief concern is safety? Forgive me, Professor, but where else in recent Wizarding history have we seen this same control? Are you comfortable with the parellels your system has, when I say, this conduct echoes strongly of the Wizarding War?"

"Ms. Rowle!"

It was Lucius who spoke.

Sif turned to him, her anger burning bright red on her cheeks.

The look of horror on his face immediately paled her.

She licked her lips and wrung out her hands. A heavy sweat broke out at her temples.

Umbridge stood, short and broad, like a trembling volcano.

"Ms. Rowle, is it?" Umbridge whispered, her voice shivering. "The Ministry does not have, and never has had, any ties to the darkness you are speaking of. I cannot have your tongue tell such lies inside this school!"

Sif grinned, her eyes glancing over at Lucius, as she opened her mouth to speak.

"As such," she contined, "I hereby expel you from Hogwarts."

"Yes, well," Sif said, her lips twitching with a bitter smirk. "Better to ignore the inconsistencies than to design a system that accomodates them."

"I suggest you head back to your common room, Ms. Rowle." Lucius spoke, his lips tight. "Allow me to escort you."


End file.
